Authors: Rex Pickett
Jack kept staring at his cell phone, which was standing upright on the table as if it were a small animal in his clutches who might make a run for it. No sooner had our lunch been brought out by a teenaged girl with a pierced
He folded his cell shut and said to me with a big grin plastered on his face, “We’re on, brother.”
“Come on,” I said, incredulous.
“Turns out Maya’s got the night off, so the four of us are rendezvousing at some place in Santa Ynez.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight. Do you think I’ve got all week? Join the party, Homes.”
“A date? With women?”
“Yes! Get with the fucking program, will you?”
“I need a drink.”
Jack laughed. We finished up lunch and then strolled across the street to visit Andrew Murray’s and Richard Longoria’s neighboring tasting rooms. Both are excellent local vintners—Murray specializing in Rhône varietals and Longoria in Burgundian—but we were a little wined out from Terra’s generous pourings so we mostly spat, which is not the way to really taste wine as far as I’m concerned.
By the time we left Los Olivos and headed back out 154 in the direction of the 101, the sun had started to bend off to the west, gilding the grassy hills. The wind had kicked up and a couple of raptors were soaring effortlessly on the
We got back to the Windmill Inn as the sun was dipping over the Santa Ynez Mountains, silhouetting their serrated peaks in a blazing aureole of gold.
We raced each other up the Astroturf-treaded stairs and both bolted for the bathroom as we got back into the room. I won only by threatening not to accompany Jack for the evening.
After relieving ourselves, we took our places on our queens, enervated from the long day. I switched on the TV and surfed to a golf tournament. “I can’t believe this guy’s going for the green,” I remarked.
My comment went unanswered by Jack. I looked over and saw him supine, breathing rhythmically in a light snore, dead asleep. I turned back to the television. The solemnity of the announcers’ voices—“this is an important shot, Curtis”—was such a powerful soporific that I, too, quickly fell asleep.
When I woke several hours later, it was inky dark in the room, and for a few strange moments I was disoriented. I switched on the bedside light and blinked the room into focus. Jack was gone, but the soaring seagulls and leaping dolphins were still freeze-framed on the wall. I hauled myself off the bed, crossed the room into the bathroom, and shoehorned myself into the closet-sized shower. The needle spray spitting from the cheap shower-head seemed a harsh repudiation to the apparent fact that I was on vacation.
Jack was standing in the center of the room when I came
He fished a bottle of dripping-wet Byron bubbly out of the motel ice bucket and extended it across to me. “Open this, will you, Homes? I’ll probably spray it all over, and you do it with just that right little je ne sais quoi that preserves all the bubbles.”
“Fuck you.” I knotted the towel around my waist and took the bottle from him, eager for a drink. Jack snaked a burly arm out, wrestled me into a headlock, and corkscrewed his fist into my hair.
“Get away from me,” I said.
“Open the bottle,” he said, releasing me with a laugh.
I did the honors. Jack found the little
thfft
sound when the cork was removed amusing. “You are good, Homes. You are good.”
I poured two foaming, plastic motel cups and handed one to Jack. We toasted and sipped. Its years in the bottle had tamed the sparkling wine’s mouth-puckering acids and given it an alluring smokiness and creaminess. It hit the spot. I’ve always felt that champagne is a perfect transition between more serious wines, perfect when I didn’t want to sober up but didn’t want to goose-step into the void either.
“Mm,” I said. “Love this stuff.”
“Delicious,” Jack said. “Not too sweet.”
“Did you go to the Jacuzzi?”
“Absolutely.”
“How was it?”
“Excellent. I could have sworn this fucking chick was tickling me with her toes.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I ain’t lying. This place is fucking nuts up here. Chicks everywhere!”
“You’ve got pussy on the brain.”
“Fuck, I know.” He ran in place for a moment imitating a football player warming up on the sideline, then pounded a fist against the wall.
“You think these girls are hot to trot?”
“Fuck, man. What do
you
think, huh?”
I set my cup of champagne down. “What do I wear? Help me out here?”
“Just casual, man. They think you’re an author. Exude confidence.”
“Not exactly a characteristic of the profession.”
Jack wagged a finger at me. “Now, that’s the kind of self-deprecation I hope to hear precious little of tonight.”
“Good luck.”
“Try.” He clasped his hands together and beseeched, “For little ol’ Jack who’s getting the shackles put on him a week from today?”
I laughed. Jack hoisted up the bottle of Byron and I held up my glass for a refill. He refreshed me with a parsimonious splash.
“Hey,” I protested, still thrusting my cup out. “Hey.”
“I don’t want you getting drunk. You know how it affects your stem.”
I made a face, but before I could protest, the phone jangled. Jack looked disconcerted, then he whirled toward me and said, “Get in the bathroom and get dressed.”
“What?”
The phone continued to importune us with its strident, drawn-out rings. Five, six … “I want to take this alone,” he said, urgency in his tone.
“How do you know it’s not for me?”
“I.R.S. know you’re in Buellton? I don’t think so, Homes. Just get out of here.”
I dragged my suitcase off the luggage rack and hauled it into the bathroom. A moment later, the phone stopped ringing. As I got dressed I could overhear Jack saying, “Sweetheart,” “I love you,” “Don’t worry,” “Everything’s fine,” “I miss you, too, honey.” Cringing, I switched on the overhead heating lamp, hoping the hum of the fan would drown out his specious endearments. When I could no longer hear Jack’s voice, I emerged from the bathroom.
Jack was reclined on the bed, seemingly relieved that the phone call was behind him and another fire had been extinguished. He straightened to a standing position, looked me over, then said in a booming voice: “What—are—you—wearing—Liberace?”
“My tux,” I said proudly, puffing out my chest. I had borrowed a purple velvet tuxedo from a friend of mine in an effort to save a little cash, and though it wasn’t tailored to a perfect fit, I thought it would get me through. Besides, I reasoned, I was infamous for occasionally appearing sartorially outré at social functions, and rationalized it would be dismissed as a joke.
“You are
not
going out in that eyesore,” Jack howled. “They’re going to think we’re a couple of wheelhousers.”
“This is what I brought for the wedding.”
Jack frowned. “We’ll rectify that later this week. Now, get out of that silly monkey suit and into some manly
Following his example, I quickly changed into jeans, ankle-high urban boots, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt: my signature look. Stroking his chin and looking down his nose at me, Jack finally approved.
Nervous about the double date, I had smuggled the Byron into the car and was hitting off the bottle at regular intervals to build up some courage, much to Jack’s disapproval as he did the honors and chauffeured us to our destination.
The trace of a zephyr bearing the piney scent of nearby mountains caressed our faces as we rolled into the tiny town of Santa Ynez. The place cultivated a kind of faux Western motif with its timbered facades and replica red barns and other anachronistic Old West architectural flourishes.
We found a parking spot, tumbled out of the 4Runner, and walked along a planked sidewalk that creaked in protest with our heavy footfalls. As we neared the supposedly trendy restaurant with the supposedly unrivaled wine list, the murmurous voices from the diners inside increased in volume. Fifty paces from the entrance, Jack stopped me and said, “Are you weaving?”
“No, I’m not
weaving
.”
“Let’s have a look.” Jack gave me a final once-over. He raked a hand through my hair and straightened up my shirt, then amiably slapped me on the cheek. “You’re a mess.”
“I’m an artist. Epigone though I may be.”
“Let’s hold off on the ten-dollar words, Webster, okay?” He jabbed a forefinger into my chest. “It’s fucking ostentatious.”
“Pretentious.”
“Whatever. Okay?”
“We don’t want to risk intimidating them, is that what you’re implying?”
“Just put the pompous-asshole side of your personality away tonight.”
“Be patronizing?”
“No,” Jack said. “Just be yourself.”
“This has been my contention all evening.”
“The self you used to be.”
“Who was that?”
“Before you went into the tailspin,” Jack pointed out.
I slapped my forehead. “Oh … oh, the
tail
spin! You mean before the divorce and the failure of my first book and the reclaimed credit cards,
that
self. Oh, oh, okay.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “It’s a new Miles.” Jack tried to bolster my ebbing spirits. “And, remember, your novel’s coming out in the fall.”
“What’s it called?”
Jack looked stricken. “What do you mean what’s it called? You’ve got a title, don’t you?”
“
Confessions of an Onanist
,” I cried out.
“Shh. Jesus. Are you just out to sabotage me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of standing in the way of your cheating on your fiancée. Uh-uh. No, not me.”
He brandished a finger at me. “Don’t sabotage me. If you want to be a lightweight with Maya, that’s your call. But don’t sabotage
me
. Or this trip ends
mañana
.”
I affected a similarly serious air and saluted him. “Aye, aye, Captain. We’re on a correct heading. Full speed ahead.”
He gripped my shoulder and spun me around. “Let’s go. Maintain. Don’t weave.”
“You’re the one weaving, not me.”
“I’m weaving because you’re weaving.”
“Weaves of grass.”
“No references to esoteric poetry, either.”
“Whitman? Esoteric?
Incroyable!
”
“Don’t slip into French, Homes. Do
not
go into Frog. That’s when I know you’re really twisted.”
We started back down the wooden sidewalk, Jack leading the campaign. The restaurant glowed yellow from inside large picture windows adorned with quaint white lace curtains. I was ambivalent, I knew I was ambivalent, and I knew I should have just turned around, but I felt too weak to protest any further. Not to mention that my reservations were compromised by the expectation of a gastronomic blowout funded by Jack’s resolve to get laid.
As we approached the restaurant, Jack stopped me with a halfback’s stiff arm from barging in. He peered through the window to case the scene. “Oh, my God!” he said. “Oh, my fucking God.”
I attempted to push past his arm to take a look. But Jack clutched me by the shirt and held me slightly back to afford me a restricted view. I could make out Maya and Terra sitting next to each other at a horseshoe-shaped copper-top bar, glasses of wine in front of them. Terra was wearing an unbuttoned charcoal gray sweater and a pair of tight low-rise blue jeans that offered a glimpse of her flat midriff—pierced bellybutton included. Maya wore a short black skirt and a tight-fitting red woolen shirt. From my perspective, she looked like a lioness secure in her preeminence on the food chain. Firelight from a wood-burning brick oven romanticized their features and made them seem all the more unapproachable.
“Oh, baby,” Jack crooned, rubbing his hands together. “Come to papa. Come to papa.”
“I thought they were going to blow us off,” I said, feeling a tingle radiate up my spine.
Jack smirked. “Don’t try to monopolize the wine selection. We’re going with their palates. If they want to drink Merlot, we’re drinking Merlot.”
“They’re not going to order Merlot. They’re way too hip for that.” I turned to Jack and threw open my arms. “And if they do, I’m splitting.”
“Relax, Miles. Jesus. Calm down.” Jack glanced back inside and luxuriated in a second look. “Man, they’re beautiful.” He turned to me, wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug and lifted me off the sidewalk. “Thank you for suggesting we come up here. I knew you were good for something.” He let go of me and raised his arms dramatically. “How did I pull this off?”
“They can smell a man about to be married two vineyards away.”
Jack giggled. “Shh. Shhshhshh!”
“Something musky emanating from him. Noble rot.”
Jack clamped a hand over his mouth to suppress his laughter, then cautioned: “No marriage shit. No matter how much you have to drink, no mention of Babs. You understand?”
I held up my hands in surrender. “No mention of my ex either. Big downer.”
“It could work in your favor. She might feel sorry for you.”
“She’ll conclude I’m a loser, but maybe vouchsafe me a mercy fuck, is that what you’re implying?”
“Come on, what did we talk about?” Jack tried to rally me. “Act confident.” He administered a playful wake-up slap. “Okay, here’s the plan. We’re going to walk in there
“Hey, wait a second,” I interrupted, pretending I didn’t understand. “I thought Terra was mine.”
“Homes! She thinks you’re an arrogant wine snob jerk.”
“Oh, and no doubt you confirmed that to her this afternoon while I was MIA in the bathroom.”
Jack wrestled me away from the restaurant window and stuck his face close to mine. “Yeah, well, while you were MIA I was in that tasting room using all my charms so that tonight we wouldn’t be DOA in that fucking morgue called the Clubhouse.”
“QED.”
“QED. Fuck you. Look, Miles, let me explain something to you. Terra is hot to trot. She’s my type. We’re not going to let our fucking brains interfere with the task at hand. You and Maya, on the other hand, have a history, you have Pinot in common. Intelligent conversation. Okay?” He leaned closer. “She’s obviously the more beautiful of the two. I’m doing you a favor. I could get either one of them tonight. I could get both of them in fact!”